Nonsensical
by Crazy Rob
Summary: The life and times of Happy Noodle Boy. Just because you hear nonsense doesn't mean he has no worthwhile message. It just means the message wasn't for you.


Nonsensical

A JTHM Oneshot

Disclaimer: I don't own Johnny the Homicidal Maniac. Please don't kill me, Jhonen.

Disclaimer II: This is a bit divergent from the original Happy Noodle Boy.

…

 _Jesus said to them, "A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home."_

-Mark 6:4

Happy Noodle was a Chinese restaurant of some renown. It wasn't five-star, of course, but the consistently good food and swift service earned it a cult following, provided you lived relatively nearby and knew it wasn't just a dive.

The owner, Mr. Kam, had grown up using the poverty line as a jump-rope. He'd spent his 5th birthday in a shelter, his 7th on the streets, his 10th in an apartment. He didn't believe in hand-outs, sob story be damned. But he did believe in fairness.

That's why, in exchange for unloading his supplies and sweeping, he would give that man a bowl of noodles and eggrolls.

No one knew his name. He was just another homeless person, probably hit hard by the economy's spasms. Some said he was always homeless from childhood, and Kam was the only person to show him fairness. Others said he was an alcoholic who lost everything (despite never being seen to drink or ask for money for liquor)

Asking him for a name was a futile exercise, even for Kam. The recent inquiry had gotten this response-

"STIFLE THY INQUIRY, HONEST PURVEYOR OF FLAKY GOODNESS! CAN YOU NOT SEE THE SHIMMERING?! THE HOUR OF RECKONING IS UPON US, AND WE MUST MAKE HASTE!"

Most called him, due to his emaciated figure and his diet, Noodle Person, or the Happy Noodle Boy. He never offered a correction.

He might have been just another sad story of someone working for meals at a time if it weren't for his other 'job'.

Carrying a wooden box, he would look for a suitable crowd, position his improvised soapbox, and begin to, for a lack of a better term, preach.

"Yooooooou miserable little kernels of greed and insolence! Grinding against my molars as I wander the grocery isles! I asked for the CHUNKY PEANUT BUTTER, MOMMY! Pulsating sacks of obliviously obvious jealousy! FUCK! I like your tie!"

If you asked any random person about him, they would say he said nothing but nonsense. Random, inane statements, as if someone had a list of condemnations and insults, threw them into a blender, and tried to piece the statements back together as they spoke. The common belief was that he was insane, to be pitied or ignored. Many believed he said nothing of value.

Others… not so much.

…

The intersection near the park was one of heavy traffic, both automotive and pedestrian. Children going to and coming home from school. Businessmen and couriers alike walked the sidewalks. It was orderly, as orderly as anything could be in the city, but it was not quiet.

Most people thought very little of the emaciated man, five o' clock shadow hanging on his face, as he set down his soapbox and stood on it. Others, who knew the man's antics, refilled their drink and turned to watch for a few minutes.

Coincidentally, a group of people began to walk by as the sign bade them to cross in safety.

For a moment, he stood hunched over, seemingly tired and exhausted (and who wouldn't be, someone as malnourished as he was?) and unable to do his usual sermon.

Then, taking a breath, he stretched to his full height, a fiery resolve filling him.

" **CEASE THY FUTILE FLAILINGS, YOU PIGEONS AND PAUPERS! BIND THY TONGUES AND SILENCE THY GREASY FLATULENCE, TAKE MY THOUGHTS AND DIGEST THEM, THAT YOU MAY HAVE SOLID POOP THOUGHTS! WAARGH!"**

Amber, a 21 year old barista who had accepted her lot in life as a minimal wage nobody who begged her landlord routinely for extensions on rent, was wondering how to tell her mother she wasn't going to go to college, not now, with money tight for her parents and tighter for her. She flinched at the explosion of noise, but kept walking in her worn, aching shoes she'd had since 10th grade…

"I sense thy discomfort in thy soles! Squeaky creekiness! The path has been long and hard! You have walked mile after mile in pursuit of a goal, and yet, with the weary pushing you forward, forward towards the golden summit, you tell yourself it cannot be done?! QUITTER! DEFEATIST! RALLY YOUR OVARIES! IT CAN BE DONE! YOU WERE MEANT FOR BETTER!"

Most heard a nonsensical rant about cheese and hotdogs. Amber stopped dead her tracks, oblivious to those who shouldered past her roughly, and turned, thinking…

… _what?_

"PAIN IS A PART OF LIFE! HUNGER COMES TO ALL! YET YOU WOULD LIE DOWN IN A FIELD OF CACTUS, WHEN YOU COULD HAVE A FIELD OF OREOS? ANIME? Will you cease your struggles and let your life be poured out like bad coffee?! HUH?! Years on years of studying in high school, you eschewed drugs! You eschewed sex! You denied yourself so much to make it this far, and you are satisfied with a bad room, high rent, and a job that will fire you if you're a minute late?! WHERE IS THY WISDOM?! FRUIT OF A 3.8 GPA, SHOW THYSELF!"

How could he know? _How could he know?_

Enraptured, she stood.

…

Carl trudged, one foot in front of the other, left-right-left-right-left-right.

One more promotion passing him over, despite years of promised, weeks of late nights and overtime, wildly successful projects… all ignored so the bosses' son, hired just yesterday, could have the cushy corner office and tell him he needed to do triple his workload to 'prove his loyalty', and his boss who had promised him just shrugged his shoulders and said, for the fifth time, 'maybe next year'.

There wasn't going to be a _fucking_ _next year._

Pay cuts. Benefit cuts. They cut out his coworkers, they cut out his vacation, they cut his sick time, they cut and they cut and they **cut.** There was nothing left; he was sure of that. Next they would cut him, ten years of thankless, raise-less, promotion-less work thrown out so that his bosses could give themselves another raise.

No. Fuck that.

He was going to get a very expensive beer, go home, and write his resignation from this miserable job and this miserable life. One round from his revolver would suffice.

 _Let's see you call me after_ _ **that,**_ _you miserable…_

"One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of FEAR! The grass is greener on the other side because you stand on wasted sand, ye miserable slave to the human egg carton!"

He chuckled. Okay, yeah, this guy got it… he'd give him a twenty, he decided, as he reached into his pock-

"SPARE ME YOUR OFFERINGS! I DO NOT REQUIRE ASSISTANCE, I SHALL SWIM AMONGST THE STARS AND CHEW ON GOOEY SUN-NOUGAT!"

The rebuke made him stop right next to a red-haired girl who stood motionless, jaw open.

"Oh weary and used CONDOM OF A SHELL OF A MAN! THE CARROT IS A FAKE! Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, fool me twelve times WHY HAVE YOU NOT LEFT?! Do not be shoved out the door, held hung low, leave head held high, to pastures with more grass and LESS SHIT!"

This man… this emaciated, thin, twig of a man could never possibly understand- _but he did-_

"One more round and one round is no way to make your exit! The wise man knocks on opportunity's door! You are not captain of this ship of lies you despise, **WHY ARE YOU WILLING TO GO DOWN WITH IT?!"**

Piqued, he listened.

…

He had to find a fix, he had to, he just couldn't take it…

"BLOOD TAINTED BY MISERY! The doctor is in-sane! Were you or were you not one who desired to heal?! Physician! Heal thyself first, then you may prepare to heal others! How much of your soul will you shave off to pay for silly dreams and a pillow of vomit? HUH?!"

Abashed, he stopped.

…

Girls weren't supposed to like girls, her dad had told her, and if she came out she would be on the streets-

"HOLD THY TONGUE! WAIT FOR THE TIME TO BE RIPE AND THEN HARVEST THE SWEETNESS OF FREEDOM!"

Stunned, she watched.

…

Most heard nonsense. Most heard ramblings about the taste of air or dog-ghosts.

But that was because, he had realized, they weren't meant to get a message.

He didn't know what the messages were- after all, a postman just delivered letters, he didn't read them.

But as they stopped, one by one, shifting as they listened, some weeping with guilt, some with joy, he knew, even as his legs threatened to fail, that the right messages went to the right people.

And that was good enough for him.

…

Andrew walked proudly, never missing a stride, and if people were too slow to get out of his way, that was their problem.

He had a bus to catch back to HIS home, where the lawn was mowed, (it had better be) dinner was ready, (it had better be) and he answered to no one but himself.

No one questioned Andrew. Not with his alpha-stance, his chiseled jaw, his glock proudly worn at his hip. Anyone who did got the back of his hand if he was feeling nice, and as he son could attest, if you didn't like him when he was being nice, you didn't want to see him mad.

A crowd gathered near a rambling man, animatedly preaching to a crowd, jiggling and gesturing, when his eyes met the noodle-man's, for a moment.

He walked past…

"LIAR! LIAR! NO FLAT TIRE! HUMPING THE SECRETARY OF YOUR DESIRE!"

Really? Profanity out in the streets? No wonder he was homeless…

"Your fabrications deceive only yourself! False righteousness, abuse, and horseshit wrapped in a sneer! HIDEOUS!"

He slowed his walk, briefly. No one was that stupid. No one talked to Andrew like that.

"Violence and venom! You never left the high school gym! Batter lover and brother and son on a whim! You're owed, you're owed, so make sure the lawn is mowed! If dinner's late, she's reprobate, you're owed, you're owed, you're owed! SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! A black hole of vanity, insanity, abuse and profantity!"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Andrew said, stopping and turning, making the enraptured crowd and a few bystanders look at him. "Do you have **any** idea what the hell you're saying?!"

"I say, I say, to my dismay, that soon you will have a price to pay! Virulent vehement vengeance for the great betrayals of growing grass and ordering pizza!" The wire-thin hobo jabbed a bony finger at him. "False righteousness and false fathering both! Repent of your misdeeds, oh wretched one, for thy crumbling tower of babil shall fall!"

"Shut the hell up, noodleoid!" he demanded, unable to think of a better insult. How did he know? _How did he know?_ If that bitch had talked, he was going to beat her so bad she'd have to learn how to mop with her face…

"A cross of steaming stool logs! You know think verses and a fifty in the offering plate obscure bruises and an empty seat? A Two-thousandth generation viper! Uncharming! Alarming! A life spent doing nothing but harming! Your son and wife you clout, and your daughter you threw out!"

"DON'T YOU DARE-" he warned…

"Your lies are obvious! Your priest knows! Your friend knows! About the shouting, the put-downs, and the countless blows! What a man reaps is what he sows! You threw your daughter out, and for what? Drugs? Rebellion? Grades? No! Because of her boyfriend's skin's shade, you were dismayed! Called her a slut and threw her out on her butt! Ihhhhk!" the noodle-man made a sound of disgust, recoiling. "Obscene needs for obeisance! Demanding respect without deserving it!"

"I have a fucking degree, you homeless piece of noodle-crap! I bring home the bread, I **deserve** whatever I- "

"Have you love?" Interrupted the noodle-man. "Have you compassion? Have you love for your wife, your son, your little girl? Speak all the languages, written and code both! Know the past, present and future like you wrote them yourself! Move mountains with ease, cure every disease, if you have all this but not love when push comes to shove, you are A **BROKEN, BANGING, CYMBAL MONKEY!** Banging on sons, banging on doors, throwing your wife and daughter down and calling them whores! How long will you clang? How long will you bang?" The man reeled and flailed, somehow retaining his balance despite flinging a leg above his head.

"…bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang…" the noodle-man chanted, hands miming palms slapping on a counter… "I want this, that, and I want it now, I don't care how, bang, bang, bang-"

"Stop it." Andrew demanded, sweat beading on his forehead, feeling his hand reach for his pistol as the crowd began to move away…

"…bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, whack-whack, a belt on his back, the lawn wasn't perfect, so you attack, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, there's a leak in the roof so you knocked out her tooth, **bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang-** "

"Shut… UP, GODDAMN YOU…" he jerked the pistol free.

"Hey man, calm down, he's just a street preacher…"

"Oh God, someone call the police, he's going to…"

"- **bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang,** you told her you'd make sure she'd never go higher if she didn't spread her legs for you, then fired her for a theft she never committed, and she went home, took a pistol, and **bang, bang, bang, bang, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, (BANG)"**

The first shot hit him in the stomach.

"Shut **(BANG)** the fuck **(BANG)** up you goddamn **(BANG)** stupid piece of crap homeless **(BANG) (BANG)** crazy bastard you have no right **(BANG)** to talk **(BANG) to me (BANG) LIKE THAT YOU WORTHLESS (BANG) (BANG) PIECE OF (BANG) DIE, DIE, (BANG) DIE, GODDAMMIT… (BANG)** "

He jerked, he shook, he staggered with every bullet as people scattered and screamed, but he did not fall, and he futilely squeezed the trigger even after an empty click told him the magazine was empty.

The noodle man, bleeding profusely, looked down at the thirteen new holes in his body, out of which ran rivers of blood he desperately needed to have any semblance of living left in him. He looked back up, with a sad, sorry expression, not pain, not anger, not fear… but disappointment.

"I… warned you." he said very clearly.

Then he fell, face down onto the hot concrete.

Two police cars pulled up, four officers demanding for him to put his hands in the air as he watched blood pool around the corpse of the man who had laid his darkest secrets bare.

Broken, he stared.

…

The official story, as most witnesses would tell it, was that Andrew somehow was offended by the homeless man's explanation that toasters were subject to wear and tear like any other machine, and decided to empty a full pistol into him. Andrew was arrested, and investigation turned up another slew of offenses to level against him- child abuse. Domestic violence. Sexual abuse of coworkers. Threatening violence. His coworkers and family alike said it wasn't surprising at all he had murdered someone who rambled harmlessly.

Mr. Kam grieved for the Happy Noodle Boy as he would a son, desperately trying to pool enough money for a funeral. He was, however, assisted by several strangers, who claimed that they had heard something other than nonsense in the man's speech- hope, conviction, a challenge to turn away from self-destructive behavior. Together, with their limited funds pooled, they made sure he was dressed well enough and given a coffin and headstone.

To his crowd, he had given hope, courage, and wisdom, setting them on a path to a better future. They felt it was only right to see him off.

An elderly pastor got the details of the man's life from a weeping Mr. Kam. A miserable existence, sustained only by noodles and preaching, did not surprise him.

What did surprise him was the throng of people that gathered, that sunny day, to see the noodle boy off.

Amber spoke about how he had convinced her to keep going in college, and how now, she had a job as a secretary that paid a lot more than before. If it hadn't been for him, she'd have given up.

Carl tried as best he could to explain that the emaciated prophet's words were what kept him from blowing his brains out and inspired him to apply at another company that hired him on for better pay and benefits than he'd ever dreamed.

Harry spoke of being drug-free and getting help for his addiction, holding a job as a cashier and doing nothing harder than coffee.

Kim told the gathered masses about how he had someone knew about her girlfriend and warned her to keep the relationship secret until she was out of the house, and now she and her lover shared an apartment and a life.

One by one, people explained how instead of nonsense, they heard words that inspired them through dark hours, conviction that made them face their flaws.

Henry was drinking himself to death after a disastrous bus accident when the man had said, amidst what many thought was a rant about tinfoil, "It wasn't your fault."

Jonah spoke of how he was planning to run away from home due to curfew and his parents refusing to let him smoke pot with his friends, when the man chastised him for his ungratefulness and told him in no uncertain terms the life of misery that his friends would lead him down.

Jenna recalled how he had told her to leave her abusive boyfriend for someone who wouldn't hit her or gamble away her life savings, when everyone else only heard an invitation to juggle intestines.

After he heard their stories, the pastor knew what he had to say.

"To whom little is given, little will be expected. No one expects much of a homeless person, much less one who doesn't even have a name. In fact, most people will tell you this man said nothing but nonsense."

"But that's not the case."

"I don't know if he knew the messages he was giving. Probably not, it's not right to read someone else's mail. But if the people here to celebrate his life and mourn his death are any indicator, he made sure everyone got the message they needed. Some people listened. Some didn't."

"He didn't beg for money, he didn't beg for food. When he wasn't preaching on the corner, he worked for a bowl of noodles and egg rolls, and maybe a sprite if it was a hot day. Hunger, cold, heat, and pain were a part of his life. Possibly for as long as he lived, we don't know."

"But what I do know is this. He's not hungry anymore. He's not hurting anymore. He's not hot or cold or even tired anymore. He may not have had a name on our books, but his name was in the book that matters. For his sake, go and do good, so that one day you can thank him in person."

…

After much protesting and pleading, it was agreed that the soapbox, scrubbed clean, was released to the public, to be displayed on the corner where the Happy Noodle Boy preached.

No one dared to mount the soapbox again, but a jar was put there, and people gave what they could, the proceeds going to help feed the homeless.

And somewhere beyond the stars, he smiled.

The message had been received.


End file.
